


Fixed

by disorderedorder, MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Series: Matched [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Also toller blonder more shredded Hux bc reasons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Brief appearance of minor Yakuza members, Clothes Ripping, Creampie, Cum Eating, Cunnilingus, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hux is a Proper Wanker, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Peer Pressure, Renamed Hux, Semi-Public Exhibitionism, Shotgunning, Smoking, Vaginal Fingering, vaginal intercourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 22:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10318181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/pseuds/disorderedorder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: After 14 months, you've finally tracked the bastard down.Things do not go as expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Tom Hiddleston and his role as Cpt. James Conrad, without whom this fic would have never happened.
> 
> Note: This fic has been tagged as dubious consent because of some peer pressure involving an alcoholic shooter and because it is implied that if you can't convince Hux to leave Japan with you, then your job might be on the line. Therefore, you might feel obligated to sleep with him even though you do find him very attractive.

For all the time you’ve spent working in your field and for all the things you’ve had to do, you never thought you’d find yourself having to track down a former SAS captain for your next assignment. It’s for precautionary purposes, of course, since the island you’ll be going to isn’t  exactly a tropical paradise, and the man you’ve spent the last year and a half looking for is supposed to be the best mercenary and tracker since having been decommissioned. You only know as much as the quieter side of the rumor mill has been willing to tell you about the man you’re trying to hunt down. Normally, this sort of thing wouldn’t even be your job, but your boss had insisted that you find him, saying that he’d likely be more willing to pay attention to a pretty girl like you. 

Aren Hux, so you’ve read and been told, is a legend in SAS history, and a member of a very respected British-German-Irish family. According to the ratings floating around the deep web, he’s one of the best—if not  _ the  _ best—mercenaries and hitmen in the world. And if he wants to stay hidden, he stays hidden. 

You can certainly believe the last part of that statement, since you’re currently at your twentieth seedy-looking bar-slash-brothel, deep in the heart of Tokyo. Every previous one has yielded nothing, and you’re nearly ready to give up. Unfortunately, you know that your superiors would have your head and more if you came back without their choice for ground protection. 

At first you thought that he might only be a little difficult to find, but the longer you looked, the more you realized that the man was probably purposely fouling his trail.  Despite being the best of the best, he appeared not to want to be bothered with work offers considering how many wild goose chases he’d sent you on up until this point.  You’re tired and annoyed because you don’t really expect to find him here, but at the same time you do.  He has to be here.  He just has to.  You don’t have the energy to keep this up and you’re running out of time.

“I’m looking for a man,” you tell the hostess who’s giving you the cold stare of a basilisk, looking you over judgmentally.  You’re dressed nice enough, more than nice enough for a place like this.  It’s dark and smoky, and the girls working here are either foreigners or wearing the cheap clothing that you’ve seen for sale on the streets, or both.

“Your husband is not here,” the hostess tells you, her accented English better than in some of the higher class places you’ve visited in your search.  She must have been learning from the girls working here, and practicing with them often.

“He’s not my husband,” you tell her irritably, “He’s tall, about 200 centimeters, blond, from Britain-”

“He is not here,” she repeats, and you stare at her.

“Are you sure?” you ask, but then you’re looking past her, at a high-sided booth half-hidden from this angle.  You catch a flash of dark blond hair, unusual when every other man in here is Japanese.  You look at the woman again, decide to take a chance and dart past her and run for the table.

The woman calls after you, clearly irritated, but you ignore her and make a beeline for the table, heels clicking. The man with blond hair is laughing, a girl under each arm, as he drinks and chatters with the other men at the table, who each have a girl of their own. You stiffen, suddenly feeling extremely out of place. Your dress clothes are all wrong for the bar, even more so considering that your shoes alone have at least over six hundred dollars on everything any of the girls at the table are wearing. You narrow your eyes at the blond man, but he hasn’t noticed you yet. 

After a moment, you clear your throat, and finally, the table’s attention turns to you. The blond man smirks at you, looking you up and down, from your perfect bun and faultless makeup, down your pristine charcoal grey suit to your shining black patent Louboutins.Your arms are behind your back, holding your umbrella in one hand and your purse in the other. The blond man scoffs, and you instantly feel your cheeks heating up.

“I thought I asked for another round, not the Secret Service,” the blond man quips with a laugh, and he leans forward with his empty glass. Your lip curls, and you instinctively take a step back. 

“Aren Hux,” you say, and the man doesn’t bat a lash at the sound of his name. “I’d like a word. Alone.”   
  
“Really?” Aren asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Get in line, then.” 

“I’m at the top of a very long list of people who want to talk to you,” you tell him tartly, “But I can waive some of that if you decide you want to talk to me.”  You don’t actually feel as confident as you’re trying to pretend to be, but you put your hands on your hips and stare him down anyway.  His amusement never even wavers, and you wonder if he can tell that you’re bluffing.  The only person you know of who’s  _ really _ in line behind you to talk to him is your boss, but that’s not unless you can hire him.  But you’ve made it this far, actually  _ found _ him, so you deserve some consideration, right?

There’s a burst of Japanese from behind you, and you turn to look over your shoulder, see the hostess pointing at you while speaking to three men in black suits, white shirts and dark glasses.  They’re sauntering toward you, one of them with what looks like a police officer’s baton in hand.  One of the men sitting at the table says something to Aren in Japanese, and he replies smoothly, though his eyes never leave you.  Despite his amusement, those eyes are cold, unmoved.  

“Now, Mr. Hux,” you say, pushing for an answer that might help you avoid the awkward situation about to happen, but he only sets his empty glass on the table and drapes his arm back over the shoulders of the girl leaning into his side.  She’s watching you lazily, and you narrow your eyes at her for a moment before you turn to deal with the newcomers.

“I’m just here to speak to that man,” you tell the newly arrived Yakuza who look unimpressed as you put your hands up, umbrella and purse still in either hand.  You gesture to Aren briefly with your purse since that seems like it might be less threatening.

One of the gang members glares at you, and then says something angrily in Japanese. You don’t speak much of the native language, so you’re not sure what to say in return. You’re determined to hold your ground, but your resolve is wavering by the second.

“He wants to know what your business with me is,” Aren says, and when you go to glare at him, he smirks and rests his head on the shoulder of the girl to his left who’s draped all over him. 

You sneer at him in return, but then you open your purse and begin pulling out stacks of American hundred-dollar bills. You set three of them on the table side by side, keeping the other seven in your bag, then push them towards Aren. The Yakuza member lowers his baton, but doesn’t step away from you. 

“I’m here to hire you,” you say. “And I’m willing to pay. Up front.”    
  
When Aren scoffs, you continue speaking. “I can pay you three times as much as this,” you say, pushing the stacks towards him. “And more. If you’re willing to comply.”   
  
“The poor little dove doesn’t know how to make a deal,” Aren muses, and the men at the table laugh. Even one of the Yakuza cracks a hint of a smile. 

“Do you want to negotiate or not?” you snap, losing your temper for a second.  Your tone of voice is enough to make the Yakuza with the baton lift it again, but you only have eyes for Aren.  He stares back at you from under half-lowered lashes, his head still resting on the girl’s shoulder, looking more bored than considering. There’s a long minute of silence, and then he sighs and straightens, stretching leisurely before he waves the gang members away.

“Sorry, gents, ladies, but it sounds like I have to hear this little birdie sing,” he says, unwrapping himself from the girl, “Maybe next time, hm?”  He sounds so casual as he dismisses his little court, the men grumbling and the girls giving you nasty looks as they all go.  One girl has the gall to walk into you, shoving you with her shoulder.  You give her a dirty look of your own before Aren’s chuckle of mild amusement draws your attention back to him.

“Have a seat, let’s talk,” he prompts, shaking a cigarette out of the box that was resting on the table next to a lighter.  He puts the Lucky Strike between his lips, full and pink, then picks up the lighter.  He pauses to pat the seat beside him before he lights the cigarette, inhales deeply and then exhales the smoke in a plume.  You wrinkle your nose, but oblige him and slide into the booth next to him. Instantly, a heavy arm is draped over your shoulder.

“So c’mon, then,” he says briefly, “What did you come here for?”

“I told you,” you say. “I came here to hire you. You’re supposed to be the best.”   
  
“Little Bird, I  _ am  _ the best. But only the most determined take the time to track me down. So tell me, what’s this all about?” 

“There’s a team heading out to an island in the Pacific in less than a week, and we need a tracker and ground security.  My boss wants you, so I did my research, but then they insisted I find you myself, so here I am. I told you, I’m willing to pay up front.” You’re very tempted to get out from under his arm, but at the same time, he’s warm and you’re still a bit cold from the wind and rain outside. 

Just as Aren is about to answer, a waiter approaches the table with a curious look, no doubt wondering where Aren’s little gathering has disappeared to. Aren simply smiles at him and raises his empty glass towards him.    
  
“Another bomb for me,” he says, and with a quick, infuriating smirk at you, he adds, “And a blow job shot for the lady.”   
  
“I don’t think so,” you protest, but the waiter has already disappeared. Aren just laughs and takes another drag from his cigarette and adjusts his arm around you. 

“Why not have some fun, virginal little dove?” he says. As much as he irritates you, he’s undoubtedly handsome, in a roguish, troublemaker sort of way, like an outlaw. His five o’clock shadow looks even darker in the dim light of the bar, and there’s something grimy on his face, soot, maybe. His bright greenish-blue eyes are illuminated by the multicolored lights above, and his blond hair is messy, hanging in his eyes and free of product.  Under other circumstances, you’d happily flirt with him in kind.

The waiter returns quickly with the drinks, and before you have the chance to tell him to take yours back, Aren reaches for both and puts his on the table, before pushing the table itself away from the both of you. He takes your glass and settles it between his thick, powerful-looking thighs, pressed against his groin. 

“No,” you say immediately.   
  
“Yes,” he replies, lightning fast. “Don’t you know, Little Bird? A blow job shot is traditionally taken with both hands behind your back, mouth only. Placement of the glass could be anywhere.”   
  
You glare at him, but he just raises a brow, waiting for you to act, or respond before saying, “Though I doubt you’d be able to take all of  _ me  _ in your mouth, one little shot glass shouldn’t be too much. Probably the same as that boring little boyfriend you’ve probably got, hm?”

You gape at his audacity for a moment, and the sheer confidence he projects now.  You wonder whether it’s because he’s sure you’ll do it or if it’s because-  

It’s a test, as much as everything else has been.  Finding him was a test, standing your ground against the Yakuza was a test, and now this is a test too and you sit up straight, glaring at him.  His smirk doesn’t even twitch as you do it, like he knows that you have to do it, that your job is riding on whether or not you can bring him back.  For a second you think you might hate him, but there’s a part of you that wants to show off too because you’ve seen a few blow job shots done off a bar before.  You can probably make it look okay, if you’re willing to put in the effort.

There’s another part of you too that wants very much to put in the effort for Aren Hux, to make him do more than just take you seriously.  To make him want to take you back to whatever cheap motel room he’s been renting while he’s been here.  Or maybe he has a proper apartment, though you somehow doubt that.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you tell him tightly, trying to ignore your nervousness as you put your umbrella and purse on the table beside his drink and pack of cigarettes.

“Maybe you’ll get more than just this for a treat then,” he says, “But tick-tock, Little Bird, you’re stalling.”

You don’t like the way he seems to be able to read your mind, seems to know everything that you’re thinking and feeling.  You push that aside, scooting a bit away from him and bending over his lap.  You pause on the way down, wondering if you’re really going to do this, but when you glance up he’s taking another drag on his cigarette as he watches with that smug smirk still on his face.  You bend further, scoop up the little bit of whipped cream floating on top of the layer of Irish cream with your tongue and swallow it.  

You reach out to grasp the edge of the shot glass with your teeth first before you close your lips around it, and then you tense and freeze when one large, calloused hand settles on the back of your head.  He’s purring when he says, “Stay right there for a moment, you’re an absolute picture in my lap.”

You nearly let go of the shotglass in shock, but you catch yourself and wait, let Aren pull your hair free from your bun, stroking and arranging it a little before finally letting you back up again. You’re forced to take the shot in an awkward way because of his stunt with your hair, but once you’ve swallowed, you reach up and take it out of your mouth.    
  
“There, are you happy now?” you ask, setting the shot glass down next to the stacks of cash you put down earlier, and Aren is still smirking, cigarette between the fingers of one hand, the other holding his glass. 

“I’d prefer if you just stayed in my lap, but yes,” he replies, taking a long drag, “And I think I’m willing to take you up on your offer.”   
  
You sigh with relief- 

“With a few conditions.”   
  
Your sigh turns into a growl. “What now?”

“Don’t worry, Dove, it’s not much,” Aren says, his tone amused, “A kiss, first of all.”   
  
You shift nervously, because as frustrating as dealing with Aren Hux is, you would enjoy the chance to kiss him. 

“And I don’t settle for that ‘kiss on the cheek’ rubbish, I want the real thing,” he continues with his terribly magnetic, shit-eating grin, “So come here.”

“What else?” you demand, wanting an answer now, trying to put off the kiss you already know you’re going to give him for another minute.

“Oh no, Little Bird,” he purrs, “Kiss first, then I’ll tell you the rest.” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, just reaches out with one hand and wraps it around your waist and pulls you into his lap. You squawk and try to arrange yourself less awkwardly, but then your hands end up on his chest because the table is just a little too far to be convenient to lean on.

“I’m waiting,” he reminds you, and you squirm for a moment before you screw up your courage and sit up straight.  You have to stretch a little to reach, but at least he leans down a little so you can.  You’re thankful for that as you press your lips to his and-

He kisses you like he wants to consume you, his arm winding further around your waist and tightening, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head.  His tongue snakes past your teeth as you gasp, and you can taste herbal sweetness and smoky ash, the first from his drink of choice for the evening and the second from his cigarette.  You can’t help the whimper that slides up your throat, you’re not aware enough of it to stop it, but he purrs with satisfaction before he withdraws.  You’re panting and breathless and hot all over as he settles back against the seat, releases your head and brings his cigarette back to his lips.

You’re still recovering from the kiss when he curls his finger at you, and you lean into him without meaning to. He brings his lips close to yours again, and that’s when you realize what he wants. You lean in even closer, close enough to kiss, and he exhales the smoke from his cigarette into your mouth, and you breathe it in, feeling it set your senses alight. He kisses you again, this time with more teeth, and he growls when you try to nip him back.

“Oh, Little Bird,” he purrs. “Do you have any idea what I want to do with you?” His arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer, over the bulge in his pants. He kisses your neck, your jaw, up to your ear. 

“I’d have you spread out on my sheets, your legs open for me, and only for me, and I’d fuck you till you couldn’t leave in the morning,” he growls. “I’d fuck you raw and make you cum until you’d be struggling to remember my name, just so you could scream it at me again.” His hand is on your thigh, fumbling with the button on your pants as he growls, scraping the delicate skin of your neck with his teeth and soothing the sting with his tongue. 

“I’d have you right here on this table if they’d let me,” he continues, his hand untucking your shirt and sliding up your stomach, tugging at your bra. “Would you let me do that, Little Bird?”

It takes you a second to process what he’s said, too preoccupied with his hands on your skin.  The words remind you that you’re still in public even though there’s no one near enough to the booth to see what the two of you are doing.  His hands are still moving, one pushing up and under your bra and the other pulling down the zipper of your pants.  He touches you the same way that he speaks, with absolute confidence, assuming control without hesitation.

“Here?” you squeak after a second, not sounding quite like yourself as you squirm on his lap.  He growls against your neck, his teeth pressing into your skin again, bracing his feet against the floor and thrusting his hips up against you.  For a moment, you can feel the entire length of his cock and you gasp at the size of him, feel your eyes get wide.  He’s a big man, but is he really that-

“Right here, right now,” he says, releasing your neck, “What better time than the present, hm?”

“I just‒” you murmur. “I thought a proper gentleman would have the decency to take me home.”

“That’s where you’re getting confused,” he growls, sucking at your neck again. “I’m not a gentleman at all, Dove.”

But after a moment, he releases you, straightening his clothes and finishing his shot, stubbing his cigarette out in one of the empty glasses. He pushes the table away further and gets up, offering you his hand. You frown, but he grabs your things, putting the cash you laid on the table back in your purse, and you have no choice now but to get up and follow him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you demand, trying to straighten your clothes a little as he pushes his way through the bar with little care for who he’s shoving aside. 

“Exactly what you wanted,” he replies, turning back towards you and shoving your umbrella and purse into your arms, “Taking you back home.”

You’re frozen for a moment, holding your things, and Aren leans in, one hand gripping your upper arm. “If you’re not going to move, I’d be more than happy to carry you.”   
  
As tempting as it is, you start walking, and he just smirks, putting one arm around your waist, sliding it lower until it’s resting on your ass. You glare at him, but he gives one cheek a little squeeze, making you yelp.    
  
“Don’t look so offended,” he says, leaning in close. “I’m still not opposed to bending you over the bar and doing you right here.” He punctuates his statement with a nip to your ear, and he guides you along, faster than before, until you’re outside. 

He waves at one of the taxis in the traffic, and it immediately skids to the curb. You’re surprised, since it’d taken you at least twenty minutes to hail a taxi before and he’s done it within a minute of walking outside. Aren gets in first, not bothering to hold the door open for you, and you roll your eyes, but you duck in after him. He gives the taxi driver an unfamiliar address, and the driver has no sooner pulled away from the curb before Aren pulls you into his lap again, turning you so that you’re straddling his thighs. 

He’s grinding up into you, his hands on your waist, pulling you down on him, his lips on yours, his teeth biting at your bottom lip as he laughs. His hands travel from your waist, under your shirt again as he gets his hands on your back, fumbling with the clasp of your bra before slipping down again, past the waistband of your pants. You let out a desperate, needy whine, gripping his shoulder and the headrest as he pulls at the delicate lace and flimsy elastic of your thong, before it tears and snaps back against his fingers.

It’s unbelievable that he’s just torn apart your underwear seemingly effortlessly, like it’s nothing.  You feel almost naked though you’re still fully covered, all your armor undone without so much as a token protest.  The band of your bra is hanging loose, your panties are, effectively, useless, your shirt is untucked, the fly of your pants open-

You moan when one of his hands dips further into your pants, his fingers curling into the tender folds of your core.  Two of them press into you, slipping in easily while he squeezes your ass and laughs again, saying, “Oh, Little Bird, you’re already wet for me, and I bet you taste as sweet as you sound.”  

The taxi driver says something, his tone sharp, and Aren laughs and nuzzles your throat, whispering, “He said that we’d better not get his seats dirty.”

“Maybe we should wait then,” you gasp, squirming as he shifts his hands on you again, wet fingers dragging against your ass as he pulls one hand out of your pants.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he asks as he brings his hand over your shoulder to suck on his fingers. Your face feels like it’s on fire when he closes his eyes and hums, clearly pleased by the taste.

“You are treat, aren’t you, my little Dove?” he purrs against your cheek, trailing his saliva-slick fingers over your jawline and down your neck, “I’m going to lay you out on my sheets and eat you until you’re begging me to fuck you instead.”

He dips his hand back into your pants, sliding his fingers back inside you to curl them against your walls, scissoring them, pumping them in and out, stretching you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck as he adds a third finger and you hear the sloppy wet sounds as he thrusts them in and out. His other hand is tangled in your hair, holding you against him as he fucks you with his fingers.    


The driver says something else, angrily, and Aren just laughs, working you harder as he replies carelessly, heedless of any potential threat. 

“What did he say?” you whimper, your voice more breathless than you can ever remember sounding before.

“He said that I’d better not fuck you in here,” Aren murmurs, pulling his fingers out of your pants again. They’re dripping wet now, and he slides them into his mouth, moaning as he sucks them clean. 

“I said I’d tip him extra if he left us alone for the rest of the ride,” he adds, spitting into his hand before dipping it back past your ruined panties. You yelp as he gets his fingers back inside you, your cheeks heating up when you hear the obscene, wet noise of him fucking you with them. You try and angle your hips so his fingers will slip deeper, but he just laughs as he untangles his hand from your hair to hold your hips. 

“Don’t worry, Little Bird, we’re almost there,” he laughs, and with that, he gets ahold of the ruined elastic and lace and pulls it all away, tucking the scraps into his pocket. You whine again as his fingers thrust faster, and he gets his teeth on your neck again.

“Cum for me,” he growls against your throat, “Right here, I want to see just how filthy you are.” 

You’re just aware enough of what he’s asking you to do, and you’re about to say that you can’t when he gets his thumb on your clit, rubbing fast, rough circles as he thrusts his fingers. You’re crying out and grabbing at him when he bites down on your neck, hard, hips canting toward his hand.   
  
“Cum now,” he snarls, and with a few more passes over your clit, you cum, fast and messy, soaking his fingers, your body tightening up, toes curling. Aren rubs you through your orgasm, dragging it out as long as he possibly can, before finally pulling his hand away, allowing you to put yourself back together as much as you can as he sucks his fingers, enjoying the taste of you. 

You’re panting, dazed as you mechanically try to adjust your pants with one hand, tugging on them even though they don’t give.  Enough of the fabric has gotten trapped beneath your knees that unless you sit next to Aren, you won’t be able to pull them up.  The problem, really, is that you don’t particularly want to be anywhere that’s not on top of him, straddling his thighs.

You give up on the pants for now, instead just let yourself down on shaky legs to sit on his knees so you can reach back, under your jacket and shirt, to hook the band of your bra back together.  Aren is watching you, looking very amused and very aroused, his eyes dark as he sucks on his fingers, opening his mouth to wrap his tongue around one.  You stare at him, forgetting how dangerously low your pants are sitting, threatening to slip down over your ass.  He gives his fingers a final suck as he pulls them from his mouth.

“Well, well, look how gorgeous you look after cumming,” he says conversationally, just a touch coy, “Pretty flush, sexy hair.  I wonder how you’ll look when I’m done with you?”  

You open your mouth to reply, falter when you realize you don’t have any kind of response.  Embarrassed suddenly, you slide out of his lap and onto the seat beside him, roughly jerking your pants back into place and fastening them before raking your fingers through your hair, trying to tame and style it into something vaguely publically acceptable.  You’re still breathing hard and your pussy is still twitching, sending little electric shocks of residual sensation through you while you blink at the driver through the rearview mirror.  The man is scowling at you, though you can’t blame him for it.  Instead, you drop your gaze and pretend to be absorbed in closing the button on your blazer.

Did you really just  _ orgasm in a taxi _ ?  The question is on a loop in your mind, said over and over again in disbelief.  Even if Aren Hux is intoxicating, even if he’s really that good with his hands, did that really happen?  You comb your fingers through your hair again, glancing at Aren from the corner of your eye.  He catches you looking, his smug smirk morphing into an even more smug grin as he reaches for you and pulls you back into his lap.

“How was the appetizer?” he asks teasingly, “Can you handle the main course?  Or will that be too much for your sweet little cunt?”  He licks his lips as he turns you toward him, and you scramble to straddle him again even though the taxi driver is slowing down, barking something at the both of you that makes Aren snicker as he lifts his hips into yours.  He keeps you in his lap with just one hand as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

He takes all the bills in his wallet and hands them to the driver, whose eyes bulge as he takes in the amount that he’s been handed, and then he’s thanking you profusely as Aren slides over the seat to open the door.  You move to get off his legs, but he holds you firmly against him as he hands you your purse and umbrella as well as his wallet, and then he opens the door and steps out.  He straightens, then carries you easily to and through the door of the building while you scrabble, trying to get your legs around him.  He’s solid, it doesn’t feel like there’s any risk that he’ll drop you, but you cling to him anyway as you realize just how far off the ground you are.

“I can walk,” you protest, but Aren just laughs and adjusts you in his arms.

“You’ll be rethinking that in a few hours,” he says as he steps into the elevator with you, nudging the button for the third floor. He smirks at you, clearly relishing your messy hair and flushed cheeks while you squirm. The entire ride, he doesn’t put you down, just holds you there effortlessly, your legs wrapped around his waist. The moment the elevator stops, he adjusts you again and carries you out, stopping at a door marked 302. 

He shifts you to free one arm and digs in his pocket for his key, and then he kicks the door open as soon as the lock has turned. Immediately, he puts you down on your feet, only to get his hands on you again, pulling at your blazer so hard that the button pops off. You drop your things in shock with a gasp, but Aren just kicks the door shut and pulls you right against him, pulling at your blouse this time, ripping the collar in his haste. He grabs both sides and rips it open, too, liberating it from all its buttons. He tosses the ruined fabric to the floor before he picks you up again, urging you to wrap your legs back around his waist. 

He’s kissing you again, his hands pulling at your pants now, and you can hear the seams ripping as he pulls harder, before you feel the entire back split. Aren laughs, his lips still pressed to yours, and he practically throws you down onto his bed when he pulls away. You bounce once, trying to brace yourself on your elbows, but Aren’s between your legs, ripping your pants further and purring when he sees your soaked cunt. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t soak through, Little Bird,” he says, dragging two fingers through your folds before grabbing the waistband of your ruined pants and pulling them and your heels off you completely, tossing it all to the floor. With a smirk, he gets his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart before he gets his mouth on your cunt. 

You yelp, still sensitive from your orgasm from earlier, but Aren is relentless, sucking and licking your folds, thrusting his tongue into you, tasting you. He growls against you, his hands tightening and pulling you closer to him as he continues to eat you like you’re the last meal he’ll ever have. You bury your hands in his hair, and when you pull, he just moans against you, sending vibrations throughout your body. 

You pull on his hair again, harder this time, winding your fingers in it and gripping it in your fists and his moan descends into a snarl.  You buck against his mouth, whining when he sucks harder, using his tongue less, introducing his teeth.  Everything is sharp and unforgiving, on the edge of pain as he shoves you right to the edge of a second orgasm.  He scrapes the hood of your clit with his teeth, just catching the little bundle of nerves at the end, and you can’t help a quiet scream as you writhe.  He wraps his arms around your thighs, pinning them over his broad shoulders and your hips to the bed beneath you.

You shriek when he attacks your clit again, sucking it into his mouth and lashing it with his tongue, your knuckles turning white as you grip his hair.  Your back arches and you’re gushing into his mouth while he drinks you down greedily, swallowing and lapping at you while you squirm.  The sensation is too intense, too much, bordering on painful.  It’s not so bad when he’s fucking you with his tongue, but every graze over your clit, whether it be from tongue, teeth, lips, or nose is torture.  You struggle to pull away, to push his head away from your pussy, not sure if you can even let him fuck you after this-

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, “I’m not done with you yet, Little Bird.”  His mouth closes around your clit again, one arm unwinding from around your thigh to roughly shove his fingers into you. You cry out again, bucking, not sure whether you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer anymore as he stretches you around his fingers. Some distant, hazy part of your mind is sure that he’s using three fingers, but you can’t hold onto the thought when he scissors his fingers, opening you up as he sucks harder on your clit. The feeling of his five o’clock shadow on your inner thighs burns deliciously as he eats you, and you know you’ll probably be chafing there in the morning as a result. 

It hurts a little when you tighten around his fingers, squeezing them as he moans and fights to stretch you back open.  The bones of his fingers don’t have the same kind of soft give as his tongue does and you sob, your head falling back to the mattress as he forces your walls apart.  He’s lapping at your clit now, talking between licks and sucks, “Cum for me again, Little Bird, cum on my fingers again, let me taste you-”

You whine, shaking your head, sure that you can’t do it again, not this fast, but you can feel the pressure building low in your belly.  There’s fire concentrating under his tongue as he licks you, suckling on your clit again and running the length of his tongue over the tip of it, making you thrust your hips up against his mouth, begging him without knowing what you’re begging him for.

“Oh! Aren!  Please-  Oh god, please, Aren, please!” you whine, gasping, pleading with him, though whether that’s for him to stop or to make you cum again, you don’t know.

“Please what, Little Bird?” he snarls, curling his fingers, “Do you want to cum? Do you want to gush all over my sheets again?”   
  
“Yes, please, Aren, please, Sir, I want to-” you stammer, trying desperately to make him tip you over that edge. 

“Sir,” he muses, suckling your clit again. “I like that.”   
  
He sucks harder, harder, until you’re screaming his name, clenching around his fingers, spilling into his palm as your orgasm hits you, painful in its intensity. Aren is growling, sucking your clit, dragging it out until you’re nearly crying. You whine when he withdraws his fingers from you, and you fall back to the bed in exhaustion. He stands, loosening the buttons of his shirt. He undresses slowly, teasing you, knowing you’re watching. He kicks his shoes aside, tosses his shirt to the floor, and you think he’s going to undress further, but then he leans forward and takes ahold of your bra by the cups.

“What are you-” you ask, but you don’t have time to finish your sentence before he pulls, ripping your bra apart and flipping you over in one smooth motion. He pulls your bra off, rending the seams of the straps, tossing the pieces onto the floor and then pulling your hips up. 

“I’m going to fuck you, Little Bird, but I think there’s something missing,” he purrs. You can’t imagine what might be missing, until you hear the sound of a cap being snapped open and Aren’s finger pressing against your ass, working his way in. 

“Relax,” he urges, “I don’t want to hurt you.” You take a deep breath and let it go, force yourself to relax as he works his finger into you deeper, stretching you. It feels like hours have passed before he finally withdraws his finger, but then something slick and wet is pressing against your hole, and Aren has a hand on your back, trying to coax you into relaxing even more. 

You whine as the object slips into you, spreading you impossibly wide, going almost as deep as his finger had gone, before you feel the slimmer neck of the plug slide into place. Aren’s fingers are still rocking the plug inside you, urging it deeper, and you feel a bit of pressure on the base before it begins to vibrate, and you immediately whimper, squirming. Aren just laughs, and you hear the sound of his zipper and more fabric falling to the floor before he urges you up, pressing your back against his chest.

“You should see yourself right now,” he growls in your ear, his calloused, rough hands coming up to cup your breasts, squeezing them as he kisses your neck, “Your arse stuffed with a plug, your pretty little cunt just waiting to be fucked.”   
  
You try to find something to say, even going so far as to open your mouth and pull in a breath to do it, but the vibrations in your ass are steadily burning away your ability to verbalize. Instead, you just let your head drop as you moan, clenching a little around the plug.  Anal play isn’t something you’ve done a lot of and despite your brief, vague misgivings, it feels incredible.  Aren squeezes your breasts again, closing his teeth around your neck and sucking.  You wonder how many marks you’ll have in the morning, but then you forget as Aren wraps an arm around you and flips the both of you.

He settles on his back, the arm around your waist drifting down to your pubic bone.  He pauses there for a moment, pressing gently with his palm, and you tighten around the plug again, gasping for breath and writhing.  His hand slides further, his fingers rolling in a circle over your slick clit and you whimper.  He chuckles before he relents, brings both his hands back and then gets them under your back to help push you into a sitting position.

“I want you to ride me, Little Bird,” he says, his voice a warm, honeyed purr as you settle upright, astride his hips, “Reverse cowgirl style, so I can see the plug in your cute arse.”

“I-” you start to say, then stop, shocked by how rough your voice is already, “I don’t know if I-  If I can.”  Your legs are shaky and you’re leaning heavily on his thighs, his cock resting against your own thigh.  It’s huge, and the more you look at it, the less sure you are that you can take it with the plug in you too.

“Get it in first,” he tells you reassuringly, his hands wrapping around your hips, lifting you as he draws his knees up, “I’ll take care of the rest.”  His point made, he waits for you to move.  You hesitate, trying to judge the size of him.  You’re not sure if you could get your hand around the thickest part of the shaft, and you’re definitely sure that he’s longer than both your palms put together.  You whimper, hesitating, but his thumbs are gentle as he strokes your back, over your pelvis.

You lift yourself, grateful that he assists, lifting one hand to adjust him, and then let yourself sink down on the head of his cock.  Your pussy is a slick, wet mess, and he slides in easily, but even just the tip seems like too much.  It feels like he could split you apart even without the plug, but the addition of the plug, even with the vibrations eroding your ability to think, seems like more than you can comfortably take.

“I-” you start to say, and he just tugs you down a tiny bit further, thumbs moving softly over your skin again.

“Breathe, Dove,” he murmurs, “Take it nice and slow…”  His voice trails away, sounding a little strained at the end, but you let him lift you a fraction of an inch before you sink down further.  You pull in a deep breath and he releases your hip on one side, settling his huge hand on your back between your shoulder blades.  The warmth of his palm is pleasant, soothing, and you sigh gently, taking more of him as you slide down on his cock.

It takes probably several minutes, but then you’re sitting heavily on his hips, feeling dizzy and stuffed.  It seems like it takes so much effort just to breathe, like he’s displacing all your insides to make room for his massive cock inside you, your lungs suddenly without the space to expand properly.  The plug is still vibrating in your ass, buzzing busily, and you pull in tight around it for a moment.  Clenching around the plug causes you to clench around Aren’s cock too, and he growls at the same time that you moan.  His hand leaves your back, wraps back around your hip so that he can lift you partway off his cock.  You’re braced against his spread knees when he snaps his hips up into yours.

You let out another, louder, moan when he hits your cervix, and you brace yourself on his thighs, trying to catch your breath. If every thrust is going to be like this, you’re going to have trouble breathing when you’re done. Abruptly, you feel Aren’s hands on your shoulders, sliding down your arms, pulling your hands back, until he’s got both your wrists in one of his huge hands. He begins thrusting up into you roughly, each thrust feeling like he’s displacing more and more of your insides. You’re very aware of the wetness already leaking out around his cock and the filthy, sloppy wet sounds as a result, and you wish you could cover your mouth to muffle your lewd moaning. 

When Aren gets one hand around you to rub your clit again, you buck up against his fingers, sobbing, and he just rubs harder, pushing you closer and closer to the edge for the fourth time that night, until you cum around him, clenching hard around his cock and the plug, gushing in evidence of your release. Aren is laughing, pushing you into another orgasm as he continues to pinch and rub your clit. You cum messily around him again, embarrassed at the wetness now coating the insides of your thighs. 

“You’re so tight, Little Bird,” Aren growls, continuing to thrust up into you, the continued pressure on your cervix making you sob, “It’s like your little cunt was made just for me.”    
  
You don’t have much of an answer for him, just another yelp and moan as he strikes your cervix again, and you feel him rocking the plug in your ass, making you clench around it. His grip on your wrists is like iron, but you feel him twitching inside you, his own release apparently not far off. 

“Do you know what happens to girls like you?” he asks, his voice a snarl, his thrusts getting harder as his release draws closer, “The ones I like to play with?”

“No, Sir,” you wail, feeling his hand tighten around your wrists, pulling and forcing your back to arch.  Just this slight change makes a difference, some of the sheer force of his thrusts suddenly diverted partly along the front of your walls. Your pussy tightens, unclenches, then grips him again while you cry out again, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“They get their pretty cunts filled with cum,” he growls. “Is that what you want, Little Bird? You want me to make a mess of you?”   
  
When you don’t answer, he reaches forward to rub your clit again, hard and unforgiving, forcing you into yet another orgasm, snapping at you though you can hardly hear him over your squeal. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Sir, please!” you cry out, and you hear him laugh, his hips beginning to stutter a bit in their rhythm. 

“Good girl,” he growls, and suddenly you feel the edge of his nail catch your over-sensitive clit as he orders, “Cum for me.”   
  
You cum with a scream as he fills you, growling his release as he forces you down onto him as far as you’ll go, holding you there.  You’re not sure whether you pulled free of his hand or whether he let you go, but your hands are back on his knees as you try to catch your breath.  You feel wetness, hot and thick, leaking from you already, and you squirm, clenching hard around him as you try to keep it inside you.  You cinch tight around the plug too, still vibrating, and you whimper, shuddering.

Aren sighs, seemingly content, but sooner than you thought, he’s lifting you off him, his cum leaking from your cunt as he moves you, splattering his abs. He lays you down next to him as he scrapes his cum from his stomach and shoves his fingers into your cunt, pushing his cum back where he’s decided it belongs.  You whine when you feel even more of his cum spilling out of you, staining his sheets, a seemingly never-ending stream leaking from your cunt. Aren rolls off the bed, stands beside it still hard, his cock curving towards his stomach, so impossibly long and thick that you wonder how you managed to fit him inside you at all.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he says with a smirk, and he bends down, rifling through the clothes on the floor before he straightens again, holding your ruined panties. Your eyes go wide as he gets back on the bed, straddling your waist and wrapping the scraps of lace around his cock as he begins to stroke himself, fast and hard, forcing himself to a second orgasm. You start squirming, but he puts a hand on your stomach, pinning you as he cums hard on your chest, your breasts, some even spattering on your neck and chin as he groans.

He’s still leaking cum when he shuffles down your body, pausing to rub the head of his cock against your oversensitive clit, making you yelp hoarsely. He scrapes some of his cum from the sheets and slides his fingers inside of you, purring softly.  There’s a gentle pressure that rocks the plug in your ass and makes you whimper, but the plug stops vibrating and then it’s worked back and forth until he can pull it free.  You can’t tell whether he drops it on the floor or just sets it aside, but he gets his mouth on your cunt again, sucking and sliding his tongue inside you. It hurts, but Aren is showing no signs of stopping until you’re completely free of any trace of bodily fluids. He drags his tongue through your folds, moaning as he tastes you and himself. His beard rubs against your sensitive thighs again, making you yelp weakly as he takes a moment to rub the side of his face against your inner thigh before he licks your thighs clean, too, and crawling up your body to clean the rest of you.

His tongue swiping over your skin feels good, adds to the glowing warmth under your skin, drowning out the aches you’re beginning to feel all over.  Your thighs are sore from being spread so wide for so long, your wrists and shoulders from being restrained by his hands, there’s a soreness almost like cramping in your belly, and your pussy still feels stretched and open, too bruised to touch.  Your throat is sore too, and you’re almost certain that you’ll have lost your voice in the morning.

But morning feels too far away to care about, and none of the rest of it matters as much as Aren’s hand skimming your body, from your hip bone to your ribs.  You let your eyes close as he kisses you, bracing himself over you with an elbow on either side of your head, his hair brushing your face.  He nips your bottom lip playfully, laughs quietly when you make a soft sound of displeasure and turn your head, glaring up at him.  He kisses you again, presses his lips against yours gently, carefully.

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” he asks mockingly against your mouth, his grin already starting to resurface.  You grunt and weakly shove a hand against his chest, grimacing when your shoulder aches enough to rise above the sweet, hazy feeling of your afterglow.  Aren doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to feel the push, and you sigh and close your eyes again.

Aren is kissing you again and you’re wondering if you’ll regret this in the morning when you fall asleep.

~   


You wake up in the morning to the familiar-but-bewildering sound of your phone ringing insistently.  You blink, trying to get your bearings, realize that this isn’t your hotel room.  The bedclothes are a rumpled mess around you and the room itself is very plain.  You try to sit up, then yelp and fall back onto the pillow in shock before you curl into a ball on your side and groan.

You’re sore all over and moving is not at all worth it, but your phone continues ringing, though it’s muffled from being in your purse and somewhere away from the bed you’re in.  It’s the particular tone you set for your boss, and while you could probably get away with not answering it, you do want to share at least some of the good news with your employer.  You found Aren Hux  _ and _ you were able to hire him.  Mission accomplished.

You can conveniently leave out the fact that you let him seduce you, not that you feel like you had much chance of resisting his brand of temptation, but in order to do that you have to actually pick up the phone.  You grit your teeth and push yourself upright, looking for your clothes-

“Fuck,” you mouth as you catch sight of the torn fabric strewn across the floor and remember that Aren  _ quite literally _ tore your clothes apart to get to you.  You flush at the thought, tell yourself that you didn’t actually enjoy being part of a scene straight out of the trashy romance novel tucked inside your carry-on luggage back in your hotel room even though you very much did.

A bit more looking reveals that your purse is sitting innocently by the door, and your phone must have gone to voicemail because it’s silent for a minute or so.  You’re weighing the pros and cons of getting out of Aren’s bed and calling your boss back when it starts ringing again.  You sigh deeply, but force yourself to push the covers aside.  You swing your legs over the side of the mattress, push yourself up and-

You gasp when your sore legs give out and drop you unceremoniously to the floor with a solid thump.  You wonder if this is how dolls feel, or maybe marionettes when their strings are cut, as you sit, limp and still naked, on the floor, staring at your purse.  Your phone continues to ring, pauses, and then resumes.  You huff and settle for crawling toward it, though even that’s somewhat painful.

You’ve made it maybe halfway to your purse when Aren appears in the doorway, shirtless and in a pair of light grey sweatpants.  He looks down at you and seems very amused while you pout at him, jealous of his apparent mobility after last night.  It seems unfair that you’re the only one who came out of your tryst the worse for wear.  

“Did my Little Bird fall out of her nest?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe with unwarranted nonchalance, and you blush furiously and point at your purse.

“My phone,” you say as imperiously as you can manage.  Your voice isn’t much more than a raspy whisper after everything, and you rapidly formulate a new plan.  A text and an email will have to satisfy your boss, but the least Aren could do, right now, is bring you your phone.  Maybe he could help you back into bed too, because you sincerely doubt you’ll be leaving his apartment and making it back to your hotel today.  Not unless he kicks you out, and you hope he’s not so heartless as to do that when he ripped apart your clothes.  The only truly salvageable pieces you have left are your jacket, your shirt (sort-of), and your shoes.

Aren hums thoughtfully, crouching to rummage through your purse, quickly coming up with your phone.  It’s ringing again, vibrating in his hand, the screen lit up, and he looks at it for a moment before turning it toward you, asking, “Your boss?”

You nod, hold out your hand again and he snorts, swiping his thumb across the screen before lifting your phone to his ear and saying, “Aren Hux speaking.”

You scramble to your feet with a silent cry of alarm, every inch of your body aching as you spring toward him, but Aren only turns and walks out of the room.  You collapse and end up back on the floor, frustrated and wondering how you’re going to get back to the bed.  Chasing after Aren is clearly out of the question, but now the bed seems too far away to get back to without an astronomical amount of effort.

You end up nursing your knees though they’re probably not going to bruise as badly as the rest of you has.  Your wrists are varying shades of purple, and there are fairly clear handprints on your thighs from where he grabbed you.  There are similar marks over the rest of your body that you take a moment to inspect as you listen half-heartedly to Aren’s side of the conversation with your employer.  There’s some discussion about the nature of the position and some negotiation about what Aren will be paid, and then there’s a significant pause and a chuckle.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Aren says, “A little…  _ impaired _ at the moment, but nothing a day off her feet won’t fix.  Don’t worry, I plan to keep an eye on her for you.”  He reappears in the door and you cross your arms over your chest and glare up at him.  He looks no less amused now than he did the first time he walked in, but still makes no move to help you and you turn away from him to pout.

“Yes, I’ll make sure she gets on the next flight out of Tokyo. Of course, I’ll be with her. Yes, she’s alright. We’ll see you soon, I’ll tell her everything. Have a nice evening.” Aren hangs up, slipping your phone into his pocket, continuing to smirk down at you. You glare back at him, but he just sighs and stoops down, running a hand through his messy hair, letting it flop into his deep green eyes. He’s shaved since last night, looking much more like a soldier, and what you presume he must have looked like while he was still in the service. Oddly enough, you think he looks somehow dirtier when he’s clean-shaven than he does with five o’clock shadow. 

“What did she say?” you ask, referring to your boss. Aren smiles and reaches up to stroke the side of your face with the backs of his fingers, and you swat his hand away. The effort is futile, though, since he returns to stroking your face as soon as you take your hand away. 

“What,” you say, trying to make your faint and raspy voice sound firmer, “Did she say.”   
  
“She said to take very, very good care of you,” he says smugly, going to his knees and scooping you into his arms as if you weigh nothing, “And that’s exactly what I intend to do, until we’re able to get on a flight out of here.”

Once he gets to his feet, you realize just how tall he is. You wonder how you didn’t notice before, but now that you’re cradled in his arms like an oversized cat, you’re very aware of how far down the floor is. 

“Aren, how tall are you?” you ask, your voice quiet and shaky as he carries you back to his huge bed.    
  
“A few inches shy of seven feet,” he replies casually as he sets you down on the bed, tucking you back under the covers. You try not to make a face when you realize there’s no way he could have changed the sheets since the night before, not without waking you in the process. 

“Now, I’m going to get breakfast, and once you’re feeling like you can walk again, we’ll see about getting that flight, hm?” He stands beside the bed with his hands on his hips and, if you’re not imagining it, he might be purposely sliding the waistband of his pants lower, exposing the distinct V-shape of his lower abdomen even further. He seems to notice you staring, and then gracefully lowers himself onto the bed between your legs, purring as he crawls up and over your body.

“Or,” he says, putting his hands on your shoulders and pinning you down to the bed as he flutters his lashes at you, “I could get you breakfast after I have mine.”   
  
It takes all your willpower to push him away, as enticing as that sounds and as much as the move makes your sore muscles burn. Unfortunately, you think that if he did anything more than kiss you, you’d be missing that flight out of the country. Hell, at this point even a kiss might be dangerous, considering last night’s events, not to mention that you don’t know if you could handle a repeat of last night this fast. 

“How about breakfast for both of us?” you suggest instead, and Aren rolls his eyes, clearly disappointed though he’s also smirking. He gets off the bed, easing his pants an inch lower with his thumbs as you watch him walk away.  There’s no doubt in your mind that he wants you to admire the breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his musculature, his slim waist and the curve of his ass under his sweatpants.

You decide that if you can manage to survive the flight and the trip back with Aren and are still able to walk, you’ll be asking for a pay raise the very moment you set foot back into your office.   


**Author's Note:**

> Capt. James Conrad fucked me up that's all I gotta say
> 
> -K2
> 
> I ain't even seen the movie yet and Cpt. James Conrad is fucking me up
> 
> -K


End file.
